Chapter 4 #2
A squeak of hinges, then: the flap of the letterbox.
I picture a faceless figure bending to peer through the hole they’ve punched in the walls of my house.
Can they see anything down there that would betray my presence?
I know the key is in my pocket, but I put my hand in there anyway, checking for it.
I put my other hand in my other pocket and close my fingers around the smooth solidity of my phone.
The letterbox swings shut.
This time, I get to twenty seconds before I hear another noise: what sounds like the sliding glass doors shuddering open.
Someone is coming inside.
Someone is coming inside but not calling out.
They’re breaking in.
To my house.
My heart clenches like a fist. Time slows to a crawl, before zooming forward in a flash of hyper-speed.
I don’t think, I just do.
I dash out on to the landing, grab the suitcase and hurl it with as much force as I can into the empty air above the stairs.
It pinballs off the wall, crashes against the banister and tumbles down a few steps before smacking the wall again. The noise is thunderous, seismic, shocking. I follow, reaching it just as it bounces off the last step and thuds against the front door.
Then I turn towards the kitchen.
Or someone does, because it doesn’t feel like I’m in my body but hovering overhead, watching some other version of me be this brave.
I reach its door and see—
What the …?
A man.
Older than me. Thick, grey hair. In a T-shirt and jeans.
Handsome. Tall. Solid.
Unfamiliar. Not supposed to be here. Easily able to overpower me.
But he’s outside.
The sliding glass doors are closed and this man is standing on the other side of them.
I’m even more confused when, having seen me, he takes a step back and holds up both his hands.
Taps his chest, then points to his right.
Says loudly, in order to be heard through the glass, ‘I live next door. Someone was trying to get in but he’s run off. ’
All I can do is stare.
He could be my next-door neighbour, or he could be the guy who was trying to break in here just pretending to be.
I have no reason to believe him, let alone trust him, but then I look down and see that he’s not wearing any shoes.
He’s in socks. Bright, patterned ones. Green and yellow and black.
They have something on them, a pattern of …
Dinosaurs?
It looks like dinosaurs.
I don’t want to open the door. I don’t want to continue this conversation. But I also need to start believing that I live in the same world as everyone else, that not everything is a threat, that the man who says he’s my next-door neighbour probably is.
That I can be safe here.
That I will be.
I go to the door and pull it open a couple of inches.
‘Hi,’ he says.
‘Hi.’ My throat is dry, my voice out of practice.
‘I was at my kitchen window when I saw him letting himself in your gate. As soon as he saw me, he hightailed it.’
‘What did he look like?’
‘Tall. Forties. Balding?’
I don’t think I know anyone who fits that description, but then I don’t really know anyone any more.
‘I, ah, didn’t realize anyone had moved in.’ His gaze strays over my shoulder into the kitchen. ‘I didn’t even know it’d sold.’
‘I just moved in today.’
‘Ah. Well, welcome.’
We exchange awkward smiles.
‘I’m Alex,’ he says.
An expectant silence follows.
‘Eleanor. Ellie.’
I immediately regret the Ellie. There was no need to volunteer that.
‘It’s the sign,’ he says.
I look at him blankly.
‘The FOR SALE sign? Some people take it as an open invitation to come and have a nose around whenever they like.’
‘Oh,’ I say. ‘Right.’
But you can’t even see the sign unless you’ve already walked up the lane.
‘Do you have movers coming?’ he asks. ‘Only because if you do, I have a couple of traffic cones I could stick outside for you. Delivery vans love blocking us in, and it can get—’
‘No.’ This is more abrupt than I intended, so I hurry to add, ‘I mean, there’s no need.
I don’t have much stuff.’ I don’t know why I’ve shared this, or why I now follow it up with, ‘I was abroad.’ Alex raises his eyebrows so then I have to say, ‘I shipped a few boxes, but they won’t be here for weeks,’ which is stupid because now he’s going to ask—
‘Where were you?’
‘Paris.’
It’s the first place that comes to mind. One of the world’s most popular tourist destinations, so there’s every chance he’ll be familiar with it and ask me which part.
I should never have opened the door.
I should’ve just thanked him through the glass and waved him off.
‘You decided to trade all that beauty and culture and romance for’ – Alex waves a hand, a slight grin on his face – ‘Dundrum?’
I smile weakly. ‘Something like that.’
‘Well, we’re happy to have you.’ He pulls a phone from the back pocket of his jeans. ‘What’s your number? There’s a WhatsApp group for local residents. I’ll add you.’
Heat races up my neck and starts clawing at my face.
I mentally run through ways I might get out of this – I don’t know my phone number yet, it’s new or I’m not on WhatsApp or Sorry but I hate those things, I’d rather have a colonoscopy – but they all seem like moves that will only invite more scrutiny and prolong this conversation.
The smallest risk is to acquiesce, so that’s what I do.
He taps the digits into his phone while my heart sinks.
‘I better leave you to it,’ he says then. He does a pantomime shiver. ‘And get myself back inside before the hypothermia sets in.’
I smile at this because I know I’m supposed to.
I thank him for the same reason. He says if I need anything to knock, and I say I will.
I pull the door closed and watch him hop back over the dividing wall.
Then I race for the stairs, looking for the keys I either dropped or threw along with the suitcase.
I need to lock the patio door.
I didn’t unlock it earlier, so it must have been open to begin with.
Just as I reach the landing, my phone buzzes in my pocket, alerting me to the fact that I am the newest member of a group called – give me strength – ‘Dundrummed’, which has one hundred and forty-nine members.
And one new message, from Alex.
Say hello to Ellie, the new owner of 1 Delaney Row!
I stare at the words as dread swirls and pools in the pit of my stomach.
Every stranger in this group now has a name, a phone number and the fact that I’ve moved into this house.
One name, so they also know that I’m a woman living alone.
The small device in my hand has become a portal that’s opened up to let an enemy army come marching through.
And I’m the idiot who raised the gate.
I console myself with the fact that at least I haven’t uploaded a profile pic.
Just as I go to exit the app, a new message appears. It’s from someone whose name is registered as ‘3 Delaney Row’ – my next-door neighbour’s next-door neighbour. A silver-haired grandmother bouncing a chubby toddler on her lap, according to her profile pic.
Welcome, Ellie! I pray the house is happy now, at long last.